


for better and for worse doesn't start with marriage

by bellamyblakesbeard



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Feels, Bellarke, College, Drama & Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Fake Marriage, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, group friendships, minor Linctavia, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-06 04:49:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14634471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamyblakesbeard/pseuds/bellamyblakesbeard
Summary: Bellamy asks for help with financial aid and in return, he falls in love with Clarke Griffin.





	1. Chapter 1

_All I’m saying is that we can totally get away with this. I need a new FAFSA application anyways._

 

The text message flashes annoyingly at Bellamy as he tears his attention away from the worn paperback book he was reading. His eyes glide over the words easily and he scrubs at his face, huffing a sigh as he tried ignoring the pool of guilt that has been sitting in his stomach since this morning when he asked Clarke to marry him. At first, he was nervous— not because he was worried that she would think he was in love with her or something along those lines— no, of course not. He was worried that she would say no because he really needed this financial aid to help with his loans. But then she sent back a text saying yes and it’s like some kind of dam was broken for him. The guilt flooded in almost instantly and the first thought he had was what kind of friend was he to be dragging her into his mess?

 

_If we go through with this it needs to happen really soon though. I think Ark U will offer us money to help cover the apartment plus I’ll be able to apply for some aid too, and I’d rather do that before the semester begins_

 

“Fuck,” Bellamy mutters, picking up his phone and reading the text before just hitting the call button. This isn’t a conversation that should be happening and planned out over the phone but it’s at least better than over text messages.

 

Clarke picks up on the second ring and skips any sort of greeting, just as usual. “Okay so according to this article on Florida’s government website, we need to get a marriage license, which can be up to thirty bucks depending on where we get it, and we need to file a marriage certificate. Are you still a certified ordain from Octavia’s wedding?”

 

Bellamy holds back a chuckle but lets out a cheeky, “Hello to you too, princess.”

 

“Hi, Bell. Do we need to pay someone to file this for us?”

 

He licks his lips as he thinks of a response, eyes darting around the scene surrounding him. There’s groups of college kids in every booth of the cafe he’s sitting in, but the sound isn’t that bad. It’s not noisy, just loud enough to provide the perfect level of white noise Bellamy needed to get some reading done. “I think I still have my license but I’m not sure if I can file my own certificate… And speaking of which..–“

 

Clarke cuts him off with a groan. “No, Bellamy. Don’t tell me you’re backing out now. Is that what this is? A joke? Offering to help a college student with matters such as loans and tuition payments isn’t funny.”

 

“No, it wasn’t a joke,” Bellamy admits. “I just don’t want you making a hasty decision and end up regretting it.”

 

“First of all, we’re nearly the same age. If we’re going to start being responsible, we fucked up when we became roommates. Second of all, think of all the _benefits_ ,” she coos. “Not only is this gonna help with student loans and scholarships, but think of all the tax benefits! Insurance! The possibilities are endless,” she insists. Bellamy can’t hold back a laugh now, and honestly, no one really needed to convince him to marry Clarke Griffin. As his group of friends go, he’d probably be the most stoked about marrying her anyways.

 

Miller is a close second.

 

“Okay, okay. You got me, princess.”

 

There’s a distant whoop and a clapping of hands, and Bellamy can't shake the feeling that he might end up regretting this.

 

“That’s what I like to hear!”

 

***

 

Two weeks later, Clarke rushes into their apartment, startling Helios— their cat—from Bellamy’s lap, making him wince in pain as the three month old kitten digs his claws through the material of his owner’s pants and into his legs. It’s worth it though, watching Clarke run. It’s a funny action in and of itself, mainly because Clarke _doesn’t_ run. She’s one of those “If I’m running, you better start running too because there is definitely something coming” people, and throughout their entire 6 year long friendship, he has only ever seen her run a handful of times.

 

As he’s laughing and gently retracting the startled kitten from his lap, he looks up at Clarke, sees her red cheeks as she huffs for air— she had to have run up the stairs, there’s no other way —and completely loses it. He hears her curse at him and only looks back at her when he hears something hit the floor. It’s one of his books and his lips part, his face masked in betrayal. Clarke smirks, tossing something else at him, and then takes his spot on the couch.

 

“Dickhead,” he mutters, picking up his fallen collection and setting them on the table next to their faded but loved couch.

 

“Mmmhm,” is all Clarke replies with, looking smug as she opens up a big envelope. “Whatever you say, _husband_.”

 

“Those are the papers?” Clarke hums her approval and he looks over her shoulder. His stomach flips at the sight of _Certificate of Marriage_ and at the lines of _Bellamy Blake & Clarke Griffin are united in the union of marriage _, and it’s unexplainable, so he distances himself before things become more confusing for him.

 

They agreed that they would keep their ‘marriage’ quiet, not telling any of their friends, and that Clarke would obviously keep her last name. “I think we should frame it,” she says, almost proudly.

 

Bellamy snorts, heading into the kitchen and pulling out some ingredients to begin dinner. “You know we have Saturday game nights here. And what about Sunday Fundays? We host next week for the brunch. Our friends are gonna know before our parents do.”

 

“Are you ashamed of marrying me? Are we planning a divorce already, when I didn’t even get a honeymoon?” Clarke teases, sliding her way into the kitchen with mismatching blue socks and Bellamy watches her fondly. She sets up base by seating herself on the counter next to the sink and Bellamy shakes his head, trying to refocus on dinner. “They’ll probably find out anyways. You know how nosy our friends are.”

 

“You make a compelling argument, Griffin.” Soft mews pick up the conversation, and then he hears Clarke fawning over Helios. After their apartment complex agreed to lowering the rule of pets to include cats and dogs that stay under 50 pounds, Clarke had dragged Bellamy to the animal shelter in search of an addition to their little family. They walked together through the aisles of grown sized dogs, having their hearts melt, and even letting a tear or two out— _Clarke, dammit, stop crying, I know you want him but we have to keep looking_ — before going into the puppy room, and then last but not least the shared room for cats and kittens.

 

Helios was tucked away into the corner, but the little orange baby with dark brown stripes and a white stomach covered in the same colored spots caught Bellamy’s eyes and he immediately tugged Clarke over to him. The tabby mix immediately jumped up and came to the front of the cage, meowing at his new visitors. Bellamy smiled at him, sticking his fingers through the slots between the bars, and watched in fascination as the little animal rubbed against him. Clarke was rattling off information that Bellamy didn’t even need to know. And judging by the look in Clarke’s eyes, she didn’t need to know any of it either. This was the one.

 

They signed up for the raffle and even convinced some of their friends to go and sign up too, to help better their odds of winning.

 

The following Saturday Bellamy, Clarke, and their ragtag group of delinquents drove back to the shelter at 9 in the morning, and cheered loudly as the number of the ticket Bellamy and Clarke shared was called.

 

“Looks like you didn’t need our help after all, Blake,” Raven teased, clapping him on the shoulder and raising her eyebrows. She tilted her head in the direction of Clarke, and asked a silent question.

 

Bellamy shook his head as they all began to walk back through the corridors and to the main area so him and Clarke could start with the paperwork. “We’re still just friends, Raven. And that’s all we are,” he insisted, but looking at Clarke now, sitting on _their_ counter with _their_ pet— who was really more of their child, but that’s a different argument —looking ridiculously happy as she is simply just petting Helios, Bellamy isn’t so sure anymore.

 

He knows that he isn’t in love with her. He can proudly say that his life hasn’t gone to shit that much yet. But he _does_ have a small crush on her, one that he has been harboring for a while now. And being married to her doesn’t help at all, but ever since they were _married_ — it’s still kind of hard to believe some days, because _holy shit he married Clarke fucking Griffin, what is happening to his life_ , and he definitely can’t tell his sister or Raven because they are going to give him _so much shit_ —she hasn’t brought home anyone and he’s a little smug about it.

 

“Bell? You need to turn on the stove in order to cook the beef.” Fuck. So much for trusting his body to go on autopilot mode. It’s _tacos_ , how could he not think and perform such a simple action at the same time? He curses at himself inwardly and turns the knob on their stove that way it’s actually _on_ this time.

 

“Thanks, princess,” he offers her a smile. “I knew I kept you around for some reason.”

 

Clarke snorts and hops down, searching through the cabinets for what Bellamy assumes will be the blender. The only things Clarke can make are smoothies and margaritas. “We still have all the mix right? We have any tequila?”

 

Bellamy hums, stirring the meat around in the pan, before switching stations. As he steps towards where he left the cutting board and tomatoes, he grabs the brand new bottle of liquor he made sure he purchased before leaving the store. “Stocked up on both. I know how you like your tacos, princess,” he says smugly. Bellamy knocks his shoulder against her’s, before returning to his fruit.

 

“Best husband ever,” Clarke announces proudly.

 

***

 

“ _Clarke,_ ” Bellamy snaps, his voice strained. “Put it back on _now._ ”

 

“We’ve been watching ‘Say Yes To The Dress’ for _five fucking hours,_ Bellamy.”

 

“I don’t care! I need to know if Victoria is going to choose lace or velvet!”

 

“I’m not tipsy enough for this,” and then Clarke _leaves_ , taking the remote control with her. The fucking _traitor_.

 

“Clarke, bring back the remote!” Bellamy shouts, setting aside his plate on the cushion next to him, knowing damn well she won’t.

 

She doesn’t even answer. The whirring of the blender is the only thing he hears in response and Bellamy groans. “Come on, princess. Just this once, don’t make me want to rip my hair out.” He walks into the kitchen to the sight of Clarke with her hair in a bun, tendrils spilling out of it, and singing along to some song as she holds down the button on the blender. Her head is moving along to the beat of whatever song she has going on in her mind, and Bellamy is reminded just how fucked he is, especially when she looks up with her blue, blue eyes, and points her finger at him as she delivers the next line.

 

But then the lid starts shaking off and Clarke scrambles to recover. “Fuck me,” she mutters as margarita drips out from the sides of the pitcher. And Bellamy, being the dick that he is and still a little mad about missing the rest of SYTTD, knocks his hips against hers, laughing.

 

“No, thanks. I don’t swing that way,” he teases, mainly because he very much does swing that way. But Clarke doesn’t know that the way he is talking about was _her_ way, and snorts.

 

“Then I should be very concerned when you bring women home.” Bellamy pauses, going stiff, and Clarke doesn’t seem to notice. Did he bring girls home that often? No. No, he couldn’t have. He hasn’t brought anyone home since he met Gina, and while she was amazing, that was also around the time he found out about his crush on Clarke, and he didn’t need to use someone like Gina to get over someone else. That wasn’t fair. That’s what one night stands are for.

 

But he didn’t go out and pick up anyone else after that. Getting over Clarke didn’t feel like something he actually had to worry about because one, it was just a crush, and two…. well. He wasn’t sure why. He knew that she was always around and maybe that was just why he started getting more affectionate with her than he already was, but he definitely didn’t mind it and neither did she. If anything, she seemed pleased with the extra attention and encouraged it, even though she refused to do that with anyone else aside Octavia or Raven. Wells was across the country, but Bellamy’s sure that if he was home right now, she would act that way with him too.

 

“Here’s your drink, Bell.” Clarke snaps him back into the present and he notices that she now has some margarita in her hair and across her forehead.

 

“Come on, princess,” he says disapprovingly, making her frown. “You’re wasting perfectly good tequila. Osmosis doesn’t work with humans and or alcohol.” He swipes his thumb across her forehead, licking the substance off before accepting his glass from her.

 

He completely misses the shell-shocked look that slides over her face when Clarke processes what just happened. Bellamy was too busy with his drink, because _fuck_ , Clarke does make a mean margarita, and turned away, already heading back into the living room. He completely forgets about Say Yes to the Dress and just watches Friends, setting his plate full of tacos back on his lap and putting his drink on the side table next to his books. “Clarke,” he calls. “Hurry up. The episode already started and it’s the one where ‘They don’t know we know!’” It’s one of Clarke’s favorites, which is the only reason why Bellamy said it with as much excitement as he did. Midseason Friends was a sketchy area for him, while he could hands down say that seasons two and three were some of the best out of the entire series. He wouldn’t though. Not in front of Clarke. She would throw actual hands at him, and while he wasn’t worried about her hitting him in the face— lets be real here, she can’t even reach it —he’d rather just avoid the entire situation if possible.

 

Monica and Chandler figuring out their shit together, though? That shit is cute.

 

Clarke lets out a noise that Bellamy can only mark off as a _shrill_ , and begins fast-walking into the living room, staring intensely at her glass that is filled to the brim, determined to not let a single drop fall.

 

“You’re a fucking wreck, princess,” Bellamy announces, fondly, and Clarke just winks at him, making him choke on his taco.

 

“See? That’s karma,” she says between sips. “And karma’s a bitch.” Bellamy flips her off, but she easily ignores it, too busy watching the screen intently. At Bellamy’s loud crunching of his taco— he likes the hard shell, okay? They’re not that bad and they don’t deserve all of the hate that they get —Clarke turns the volume up to 21 on the TV.

 

“Twenty-one?” Bellamy snorts. “The hell you think this is? At least make it an even number.”

 

“Why?” Clarke cocks her head to the side, tearing her attention away from the screen. Bellamy doesn’t buy it for one second.

 

“Oh, come on. Don’t act like you don’t have the same _exact_ problem with this. We’ve literally ganged up on Octavia about the TV volume before, so I know damn well that keeping it on twenty-one is hurting your soul.” He reaches over for the remote that was right in between the both of them, and Clarke moves it. “C’mon. Don’t start this.” He reaches over for it, and she holds it _just_ out of his grasp. “That’s it.”

 

Bellamy sets his plate aside, because Clarke be damned, she is _not_ ruining his perfect tacos, and pretty much pounces on top of her for the remote, because he has no self control. She’s laughing, still trying to keep the remote out of his reach, so he begins tickling.

 

She gasps in betrayal. “Bellamy!” She squeals, laughing almost instantly. “Stop, stop,” she pleads, her eyes closed tightly. If he kept going, in about twenty seconds the tears will fall and he will take his victory.

 

“Nope. You think this is a joke.” He tickles her faster, and her legs are straining to move, desperately trying to be brought up to her chest to provide some sort of defense. “Say it. You know how this ends.”

 

For a twenty-two year old and a twenty-four year old, one would think that they are way too old for tickle wars. But that’s for people who have their shit together, so Bellamy and Clarke definitely did _not_ fit that category, to _any_ extent.

 

“Bellamy— Bellamy! Okay, okay, if you stop I’ll say it!” She pants, and Bellamy squints at her. Clarke never gives up that easy.

 

“Liar,” he declares. He keeps going and there’s a part of him that thinks that with how red Clarke’s face is getting, she might actually pee herself this time.

 

“No, no, no. I _promise._ Please, please, please.” Bellamy leans back, watching her disbelievingly. Clarke makes it a solid five seconds before erupting into another burst of giggles, and really, Bellamy should have held his stance better. Clarke is a horrible liar.

 

But something about her rosy pink cheeks and her giggles, and the mess that is her hair now, makes him stop from continuing his mission. Because yeah. He’s definitely fucked. 


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke loved the rain. It set the perfect mood for so many different activities. It offered inspiration for painting, a peaceful background noise for sleeping. It even set the mood for sex —not that she’s experienced  _ that _ particular activity lately. 

 

But as much as she loved the rain, she  _ hated _ driving in it. Absolutely despised it. Every time she had left her and Bellamy’s apartment and it was raining, she’d tried waiting a few minutes to see if the rain would ease up a bit —and sometimes it did, but other times she would just have to pull herself together and get in her car and drive anyways. When she was already out and it started raining, there wasn’t really that much she could do to retaliate, so she’d just get in and drive and drive, with her hands securely on the steering wheel and her eyes checking every mirror every 6-7 seconds like driving schools tried to encourage. 

 

This was one of those times. 

 

She’d been out, not for very long, just ran out to stock up on some snacks for the apartment since everyone would be coming over in a few hours, when it started sprinkling. It wasn’t bad, nothing she couldn’t handle, but as light turned to dark and she had to flip on her headlights, her anxiety rose. Halfway home the rain picked up and she began hitting every single damn red light in the city she could. And then the first bolt of lightning struck, landing right in the direction she needed to go. 

 

Clarke sighed, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel anxiously, and as she drove the way home she couldn’t help but remember the night of her car accident and the reason why she’s so fucked up over rain, of all things. 

 

Six years ago, before her and Bellamy had their truce and became friends, she got into an accident with her dad. It wasn’t his fault, but the car next to theirs. The pavement was slippery because it was summer and with summer came daily rainstorms, and it was on the cusp of dusk. The car next to theirs had to merge for an upcoming turn and instead of waiting for Jake and Clarke to fully pass, the car cut their wheel early to switch into their lane, and ending up knocking into the driver’s rear of the vehicle. Luckily the car didn’t hit too hard and they were knocked into a slanted angle across the two-lane road. Both of them were okay, Clarke only having a light scratch across her knee from bumping into the dashboard.

 

The other car ended up in the right lane completely, while Clarke’s car was spread out through the left lane and partially in the right. Jake stayed in the car for a few minutes, dialing 911 and explaining the situation as Clarke called her mother and got out of the car, rushing over to the other driver and asking what happened and how they were feeling, et cetera.

 

And then someone screamed and Clarke turned around. Everything seemed to slow down as she watched a truck, going at least forty miles an hour, plummet into the side of Clarke’s passed down Toyota. It wasn’t anything special, not by any means, but what  _ was  _ special was still inside, talking to 911. Her lips formed something, something that to this day she still can’t remember, but she knows it came out in a scream. She knows her mother started talking to her rapidly and she couldn’t process anything she was hearing. 

 

All she could feel was the numbness spread inside of her like an illness, and the faint feeling of water droplets making contact with her skin. Her arm fell limply to her side and she just stood there with the wind knocked out of her. And then a second passed. Two. Three.

 

And then she was sprinting to the crumbled mess of gray metal. She heard squealing of tires and she picked her head up to look as the truck tried speeding away, but it was stuck in the grass of some lawn, making holes in the ground as the tires turned more and more but got nowhere. Rage burst through her chest like an explosion, but instead of going over there and facing the lady that hit her father, she tried tearing open the door of the car, seeing her father trapped inside. The airbag was deployed now, and he was slouching down into the driver’s seat. 

 

“Daddy!” She screamed at him, feeling the rawness clawing through her throat and tears stinging her eyes. Clarke banged against the window a few times to get his attention, but there was no response. She went back to trying to pull the door open and the adrenaline was enough to give her the strength she needed. 

 

The sight was nauseating. 

 

She didn’t need the paramedics to announce he was dead on scene, when she could announce it herself.

 

There was so much blood and tissues and fats and, and, and. 

 

And Clarke couldn’t do anything about it. Instead of trying to take off his seatbelt or remove his still lit phone that was secured in his right hand, she collapsed to the ground, bringing her knees to her chest. Her mouth fell open in shock and she couldn’t even bring out the strength to lick her lips to wet them when they became dry. 

 

The only indicator to her that she even had a normal, human reaction to the situation was when the taste of salt, of tears, began to mix in with the taste of rain. 

 

***

 

A few days later they had a funeral for him. It was a large service considering the town wasn’t even that big, and her mother had decided it would be best for it to be closed casket. 

 

It didn’t stop Clarke from going up to the casket and opening it anyways. For a minute her father looked normal, like he was just sleeping, but then her eyes started picking up on the things that she would’ve noticed immediately if she had still seen him everyday. His entire face was pale and clear, an obvious sign of makeup being spread across his cheeks, hiding the light dosage of freckles he would get from spending too many hours in the sun. His eyelashes and hair were beginning to lose the pigment involved with each and every strand. There weren’t any laugh lines or wrinkles near his eyes anymore. He was laying too still. His hands were folded, something he would never do, because he always prefered interlacing his fingers. His chest wasn’t moving. 

 

Tears filled her eyes and just as one was about to break through and release the flood, she quickly slipped in his favorite tie— one the exact same shade of blue as her eyes —and she placed the lid back into place. Clarke turned around and quickly made her way back to her seat, hands clutching to the purse her mother scolded her to bring because it looked better than just carrying her phone. Her phone, that was dead and was probably blowing up with messages each and every second from her friends asking how she was doing, how she’s coping, does she need anything? 

 

Everything was so overwhelming and nothing at the same time. It felt like time had stopped but everything was still moving. Everyone else around her kept moving too, but she couldn’t even lift a finger. 

 

A few seconds after she had sat down, she felt the presence of someone collapsing down into the seat beside her. Even in her numb-minded state, she looked in her peripheral vision out of curiosity, and nearly groaned at the sight.

 

“What, Blake?” Clarke wasn’t in the mood to be talking to Octavia’s older brother. She hadn’t seen him since before the accident and as far as she is aware of, he hasn’t tried to reach out to her in any sort of way. But her phone was dead and it has been for a while now. So it’s a fifty-fifty. 

 

Bellamy doesn’t reply, instead reaching inside his jacket pocket to bring out something metallic before pressing it into her hands. “It helps,” his low voice rasped and Clarke takes the opportunity to actually look at him, at his face. 

 

His cheeks are pale and his freckles are transparent. He has deep and dark bag under his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes and Clarke remembers just how much he loved her father despite the two teens’ everlasting feud. 

 

“Thanks,” she whispered back, still feeling nothing but the hollowness inside her chest. Clarke took a quick sip, fighting the urge to cough at the bitterness that infiltrated her mouth. A ghost of a smile traces Bellamy’s lips and with all of the darkness that has been looming over their heads it’s a nice sight to see.

 

***

 

The death of her father somehow brings her and the older Blake closer together. She’s known him for as long as she’s known Octavia— a friendship she wouldn’t trade for the world —but they always fought before. They fought so much to the point that when Clarke and her dad would be out in their front yard kicking around a soccer ball and Jake called out to Bellamy to come and join them, Clarke left when he did. He was always so infuriating and he always wore patience thin. So she started choosing her battles carefully, logging important details to bring out during the next  _ Bellamy versus Clarke  _ showdown. 

 

But then the funeral happened and suddenly she didn’t want to talk to anyone else  _ but _ Bellamy. Clarke thinks it’s because he’s the only one that could really understand what she’s going through. He never had his real dad, a temporary substitute when Octavia was born, but even he left while the two kids were young, leaving Aurora all by herself. So maybe Jake was the closest thing Bellamy ever had to a real father figure. And that’s why she went to him in her time of need. Because he would understand how she felt. He would understand how it felt when someone who had always promised to stay and be there for  _ everything _ , was just ripped away suddenly. And there wasn’t anything to be done about it.

 

Bellamy came to her house a few days after the funeral. It took four phone calls to finally convince him and she practically sprinted to the door when she heard his knock echo through the empty home. She didn’t answer it at first, realizing that she could recognize his  _ knock _ . 

 

But then she shook her head and answered it anyways, of course, and practically collapsed against him. 

 

“Hey, princess,” eighteen-year-old Bellamy soothed, wrapping his arms around Clarke. She didn’t need to look at him to know he probably reflected how she looked herself. Rumpled clothes, tangled hair, tear-stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes. Liquor made the mind stop temporarily, but it didn’t stop the hole in her chest from aching. 

 

She doesn’t say anything in response, just steps aside to let him into the house and closes the door behind them. Clarke rubbed at her eyes tiredly, following Bellamy as he trekked into the kitchen. 

 

“You guys need to stock up on some food,” he proclaimed, his voice so dry that she believes him for a split-second before snorting.

 

“What? You don’t like sympathy casseroles? How about sympathy lasagnas instead?” 

 

Bellamy shook his head, closing the door to the fridge. “You need some real food in you. When’s your mom coming home?” Clarke thought about it for a minute before shrugging. Knowing her mother’s work schedule used to be easy, something she could recite off the back of her hand, but ever since the accident Abby has been at the hospital burying herself into surgery after surgery. 

 

He shakes his head again, scrubbing at his face. “Come on. Let’s go get some food,” he tells her, to which Clarke makes an immediate noise of protest. He levels her with a look and she whines again, but eventually caves. 

 

Bellamy has his truck already running by the time Clarke gets her sandals and is locking the front door to the house, so she scurries down the driveway and flings herself in. Sitting there in the driveway wasn’t too bad, but once they’re out on one of the main streets Clarke finds herself gasping and clenching desperately onto the “oh-shit” handle a few different times. But every time it happens, Bellamy doesn’t tell her to stop and to get over it. Instead, he’ll pick up her free hand and comfortingly tell her, “It's okay, Clarke. I got you.” 

 

And she believes him. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> come bug me on tumblr @princessofassguard


End file.
